Fever Pitch
by Runawaymetaphor
Summary: The species of betrayal are infinite, their collective discovery easily filling a lifetime. An AU look at the episode Repression.
1. The Deep

**Author's Note: **_Because most wounds don't neatly heal in the time that elapses between television episodes.  
><em>

**Legal/creative Note:** _Episode flashbacks within this story make generous and repeated use of the writing of Jeri Taylor (among others), if laced with my own narratives. Just like the characters themselves, I don't claim those works as my own, legally or creatively. Fun, not profit. Yada yada. . ._

* * *

><p><strong>Fever Pitch<strong>

**I. The Deep**

"_Happy Ancestor's Eve!", Neelix greets Janeway. _

"_Happy Ancestor's Eve, Captain," the rest of the senior staff chime._

"_What's all this?" Janeway asks, her tone courting a clear warning. _

"_It's April 22, Ancestor's Eve. It's a holiday first established, err. . ." Neelix hesitates, continuing, "well. . . today, actually, with the Captain's permission."_

"_Neelix," Janeway scoffs, already frustrated. She can see where this is going, and while she appreciates the thought, she's in no mood for any of this. _

"_I think he's onto something, Captain," Chakotay quickly defends. "An evening of reflection in honor of those who came before." _

"_Here, here," Harry smiles. "Uncle Jack would approve." _

"_It got me out from under a warp conduit," B'Elanna comments wryly. "I'm all for it."_

"_I appreciate what you're trying to do," Janeway begins warily, "but-"_

"_Neelix," Tom quickly pipes up, sensing this is all about go awry, "the gift."_

"_What gift?"  
><em>

"_Shannon O'Donnell Janeway, circa 2050," Neelix replies, handing Janeway the framed photo. "We did a little more research. This photograph was taken in a small park near Portage Creek, thirty-eight years after the dedication of the Millennium Gate. I thought it would look nice in your ready room, on the shelf next to your desk."_

"_Thank you," the Captain responds diplomatically. "But I'm not so sure she has a place there anymore."_

_"You are mistaken, Captain," Seven intones solemnly._

"_Oh?" Janeway sighs, momentarily amazed at the former drone's characteristic. . . bravado. At some point, she's really going to have to talk to Seven about the way she voices her disagreement.  
><em>

"_Her life captured your imagination. Historical details are irrelevant." _

"_I concur with that analysis," Tuvok adds, earning a silent censure from Janeway. _

"_If it weren't for O'Donnell, you never would have joined Starfleet," Chakotay piles on. _

"_Yes, and I would have never have gotten you all stuck here in the Delta quadrant." _

_It's the kind of dark statement Janeway rarely allows herself. But by now, she trusts her staff enough to let them sees this part of her. Even if 'this part' happens to be a mere silhouette of a substantial pain, with infinite contours.  
><em>

"_It gave us all time to get to know each other," B'Elanna points out, sharing a stolen glance with the man she loves. _

_Inwardly, Janeway sighs. She isn't cheered up, not even close. But putting on a good show of it for her crew sometimes goes hand-in-hand with actually feeling better later. And as she locks eyes with Harry and Tom's smiling faces, feels the touch of Chakotay's encouraging arm, she begins to feel her spirits genuinely perk up, if only a little.  
><em>

"_Time for a family portrait of our own- everyone, gather around the Captain please," the Doctor instructs, as the staff, by silent and unusual agreement, decide humor him. "Face the camera."_

_As they all heed the Doctor's directions, gathering around Janeway with smiles and even loose embraces, Janeway chides herself to take more joy in these occasions. Her staff together, without crisis or immediate danger. A weary and sometimes haggard crew, taking solace in the company of trusted friends, even lovers.  
><em>

"_To family," Janeway pronounces, her chest filling with newfound resolution. _

"_To family," seven voices echo, their laughter and warmth captured for posterity on the Doctor' holo-imager.  
><em>

* * *

><p>Janeway is pushed into the cargo bay with a harder than necessary thrust from one of her escorts' phaser rifles. She catches her footing in time to keep from falling forward, throwing an inconspicuous glance over her shoulder to see which one of her officers just tried to shove their Captain onto her face.<p>

Her eyes catch sight of Ensign Tragor's firm expression, noting the faint tinge of smugness around his mouth, before averting her gaze once more.

"You will remain here," Tragor announces. "If you attempt to escape or contact other members of your crew, we _will_ kill someone in the brig."

_You're all my crew_, she thinks desperately. _This is my ship. _

They depart moments later; the sight of her officers, clad in their old Maquis fatigues as they erect a force field around her, burning an image into her mind that will last longer than her confinement here.

The field they've placed her in is roughly two meters by two meters. Enough room to move about, but not enough to work up a good stride if she paces. Pushing away the possibility that Tuvok may have specified these dimensions of her make-shift holding cell for this very reason, she begins to consider her relatively dire situation.

The former Maquis crewmembers are out-numbered three to one on board, but at present they have control of all of _Voyager_'s systems, all fifteen of her decks. The Starfleet crewmembers have been imprisoned, Chakotay no doubt separating her from them in order to deprive them of the assurance her presence brings. Likely letting them wonder if she's already dead. And she would be. If Chakotay hadn't given Tuvok a disabled phaser.

The image of Tuvok standing stoically beside Chakotay in the ready room after he passed the Chakotay's loyalty test is yet one more that will burn behind Janeway's eyelids.

Almost running into the energy of the containment field, Kathryn banishes this thought, too. It's another wound she doesn't have the luxury of contemplating at the moment.

Her thoughts turn here to the intermittent communications she heard chirped from the Tragor and the others' badges as she was led down to the cargo bay. Something about Kim and Paris- a foiled attempt to recapture deck six.

The fact that the weapons lockers are on that deck inspires hope in Janeway, but it also bids forth a deep sense of unease. Chakotay's preference for non-violence will clearly give way when pushed (though how far she's yet to ascertain), and it isn't if his preference is shared by other members of the Maquis to begin with. If any gains were made on deck six, it was quite possibly at the cost of Starfleet lives.

Starfleet and Maquis. The old designations, now rampant throughout her internal dialogue, gives her a long moment of pause. To come this far and be back to that. Worse than that. It's a reality that could break her if she let it.

She spends her time in isolation plotting, debating strategies, and worrying. Nothing miraculous strikes her, nor should it be expected to, given how deprived of information she is. But she has a few ideas that may prove useful, later.

Five hours go by, perhaps more, before the cargo bay doors part again, two guards emerging with a limp form being dragged between them. Even fifteen meters away, with his head lulling down and obscuring his face, Janeway recognizes the unconscious body as that of Paris.

The fact that the pilot's been beaten, (and as she will see in a moment) with special care taken to color one side of his face, is obvious. Janeway watches in silent concern as the security detail unceremoniously deposits Tom on the floor with a thud, erecting a separate force field around him, a few meters from where she herself stands imprisoned.

"He needs medical attention," she demands, as the guards make to depart once more.

"His internal injuries have received it," one of them hisses. "Perhaps you can convince him to behave a bit better during his stay with us. . . And if not, it's really no matter. We should be dumping all of you on a nice, deserted rock any hour now."

Janeway doesn't know if they're telling her the truth about Tom's injuries being tended to, or else offering this just to shut her up. She knows it's no use to argue with them given their obvious distaste for Lieutenant, though maybe she would have a shot if she's able to speak with Chakotay again.

When they're left alone, Janeway tries calling to Paris, doing everything she can think of to rouse him. The only time he appears on the verge of consciousness is when she grows desperate, barking his title across the distance between them. But even then, the response is just a low moan as his arms stir slightly.

In the renewed isolation, she wonders if Chakotay has already begun transporting members of the crew off ship. They were at impulse previously, but she can feel by the lack of vibration in the deck plates that even that motion has stopped. Which means that either the Maquis efforts have been somehow stalled, or _Voyager_ has already reached a planet suitable for stranding the more than one hundred crewmembers of Starfleet affiliation.

Looking at Tom's crumpled form on the ground, even the eternal optimist in Janeway can't consider the first possibility more likely than the second.

When the lights in the cargo bay flicker on and off for a period of several minutes, more than two hours have gone by since Paris was deposited by Chakotay's officers. Janeway listens outside for any sign that the power outage is a sign of another Starfleet uprising, but she hears no commotion in the corridors.

The continued silence doesn't rule out hope. The cargo bay she and Tom are being held is on deck fifteen, deep in bowels of the ship. There's fourteen decks between their present location and the bridge; four and six decks, respectively, to Engineering and the transporter rooms. Even if the members of Starfleet crew have mounted an ambitious rebellion, Janeway's present location wouldn't be in the path of the fighting.

Another power fluctuation and another flicker of lights. This time, the room goes completely dark, save the faint glow of emergency lights lining the walls.

When Janeway hears the hiss of the force field destabilizing, she quickly darts to Tom, beginning to drag him by his legs rather than wasting precious time trying to wake him.

The motion causes Paris to finally regain consciousness, and by the time his Captain's moved him clear of where the containment field previously stood, he's jerking away from her, his eyes opening to reveal confusion and then pain.

"We're being held in cargo bay four," she supplies quickly. "The force fields they had around us dropped when the power fluctuated."

"A miscalculated risk on Chakotay's part," Paris groans, rolling onto his stomach, then getting up slowly and with obvious effort. "He knows only force fields in the brig and engineering are maintained by emergency power."

"He must have thought it was worth the risk to separate me from the crew. . . Apparently you too." She smiles wryly, looking around for a med-kit as she prioritizes tasks in her head. "Your little insurrection must have left quite an impression."

Tom nods, moving to retrieve the med-kit that she's found and now beginning to look through it. He finds the regenerator and slowly attends to his face, then pulls up his uniforms jacket and sweater, revealing nasty bruises on his torso.

"Let me," he says, taking the medical tricorder from her and scanning himself.

"How bad?" she asks, after a few moments are passed in silence.

"Not good. But not terrible."

She doesn't believe him, not even a little. And watching him load a hypospray, she suspects it's with a stimulant rather than just an analgesic.

"These panels have been disabled," she says, tapping a console. "We won't be able to ascertain what systems are down from here. But at least we can try to make it past that door."

"Internal sensors, propulsion, and transporters are all out, and all non-essential power expenditures have now been shut down," Tom announces at a clip, casting a quick glance at Janeway as he slides both the hypo and the tricorder into his waistband. "B'Elanna will be angry enough that she'll have main power up within the hour. The other systems will take two to four. Depending on exactly _how _pissed she is. "

The trace pride and affection Tom still voices this last part with isn't lost on Janeway, even as her eyes lock with his, waiting for information on how he came by this knowledge, or at the very least an exposition of the exact cause of the ship's apparent cascade failure.

None of it is forthcoming from Paris, who simply nods to the ceiling to indicate the possibility that whatever surveillance Chakotay rigged in the cargo bay might yet be functioning.

It's a distant possibility, and even if it proves true Janeway isn't sure that it matters. If any surveillance is presently operating, they will no doubt be met by armed guards the second they try to pry open the cargo bay doors.

They move to the bay entrance, Tom once more opening the medical tricorder as he stands in front of it.

"No life signs on the other side," he pronounces. But keeps it open, just in case.

"Occupied with the power failure," Janeway ventures, beginning to tinker with the doors' manual overrides. "Our biggest advantage in this is how thinly stretched they're going to be."

She continues to work on the doors, missing the dark expression that appears on her helmsman's face.

"I promise you, Captain- what Chakotay lacks in numbers he makes up for in willingness to gamble."

Tom voices the warning in a low tone, his eyes locked on the medical tricorder to avoid meeting his companion's. Kathryn Janeway knows Chakotay. But she doesn't know _this _Chakotay. The mercenary; the cynical strategist. The calm demeanor that abruptly dissolves when the old rage that bubbles within him reaches a boiling point.

Paris doesn't voice any of this, and his Captain quickly turns away from him, nodding to the door to indicate that they can now pry them open.

The pilot bites his lip to keep from screaming at the agony the effort causes him, Janeway trying her best to ignore his change in pallor and slightly shaking hands. There's nothing she can do for him that he wouldn't have been able to do for himself if he could, and as concerned as she is for his health, there's obviously more at risk than either of their individual lives.

They emerge into the darkened and deserted corridor, quickly opening a hatch to a Jeffries tube and climbing in. Janeway goes first, Paris' labored breaths trailing behind her until they reach the conduit break that will allow them to stand up.

"The cascade failure?" she prompts immediately, upon reaching the break.

"Harry caused it," Tom says, with a small cringe as he swings his legs down. "It was a program initiated hours ago, but with a built in time delay. It's going to take them a while to track down the cause, and even longer to eradicate the program. Harry wrote it to jump from database to database."

"Your venture on deck six?"

"I went for the weapons lockers as a diversion," Tom confirms. "It gave Harry time to slip into the holo lab."

Janeway nods here. The holo lab is one of the few interfaces other than those in Engineering and the bridge that would permit such an act of sabotage.

She looks up, allowing her gaze to focus on the officer who acted as a shield for his best friend and colleague.

"What happened to Harry, the others?"

"Returned to the brig I think."

"And they kept you for. . . ?"

"Casual conversation and a few polite questions," he responds dryly. Making no move to answer her further.

Janeway makes a sound in the back of her throat, otherwise letting it go. The past six years with Tom have been more than enough to teach her when to press him and when to give up.

"We need to make it to the bridge," she says, though more to herself than to him.

"The bridge is a long way away from here," he sighs. "But maybe Engineering is a possibility."

If they make it to Engineering, they might be able to keep the ship immobile. Possibly even shut down the core, thus delaying Chakotay's progress 'relocating' the Starfleet crew. But what happens then, when they are standing still with weapons brandished?

Neither wants to think about the prospects, but they also don't have a choice. Inaction, given their current situation, is untenable. Absolutely out of the question in both of their minds.

"Let's begin making our way there," she instructors, gesturing to the shaft ahead. "We'll avoid all major conduits that repair teams might work in."

"Any ideas what to do when we get there, ma'am?"

"Always," she intones. And with all the confidence she doesn't feel. "Will you be able to keep pace without seriously exacerbating your injuries?"

"Of course," he replies, adopting the same façade.

"Then Engineering here we come."

They begin to make their way at an impressive pace, their movements halted only when one of them thinks they hear something ahead.

But it's in those frozen moments, in the darkened depths of the ship, that each of their fears threaten to overtake them; consumed by the feeling of _Voyager_ being dead in the water - the cold metal beneath their palms failing to pulse with energy, and the familiar hum of power absent from their ears.

* * *

><p><em>There is a fire, starting in my heart, <em>  
><em>reaching a fevered pitch<br>and it's bringing me out the dark._  
><em> Finally, I can see you crystal clear.<em>  
><em>Go ahead and sell me out,<br>and I'll lay your ship bare._

"Rolling in the Deep", Adele


	2. Breathless

**II. Breathless**

* * *

><p>"<em>I'm lowering the oxygen ratio," he informs her, sounding out of breath , even through the grav suit's comm line. "That should give us a few more minutes."<em>

"_I'm feeling kind of groggy," she admits. _

"_Oxygen deprivation."_

"_And you're _lowering _it?"_

_Though B'Elanna doesn't say 'you idiot', Tom can hear it in the engineer's incredulous tone. Strangely enough, her familiar frustration goes a way in making him feel better._

_If they're going to die out here- and he recognizes that they are mostly likely going to die out here- he's grateful that she's being herself, being honest. Right up until the end. _

"_We have to try to make it as long as possible," he responds, trying to infuse as much as hope into his tone as he can. _

"_It's ironic, isn't it?"_

"_What?"_

"_Today," she begins, sounding vulnerable, uncharacteristically weak, "the Day of Honor. . . is the day I'm going to die."_

"_We are not going to _die_. Would you stop talking like that?"_

_It's a lie. And he knows it as much as she does. But as that famous Klingon stubbornness has apparently deserted her, he feels even more pressure to keep her going. Keep her clinging to hope. _

"_We have to face up to it, Tom," she pleads earnestly, and for this, he has no retort. He can't sell her hope at the cost of honesty. Not when honesty is the only thing they have left. _

"_There's something I've been. . . wanting to ask you," he ventures, his thoughts slowed by lack of oxygen, the overwhelming fear of their situation. _

"_Well, now's the time. . ."_

"_When we first met, you didn't have a very high opinion of me." _

_For once he makes the observation without a sarcastic joke or even the taint of bitterness; those defenses are meant to stall, designed to shield. Two pursuits that, upon reflection, now seem laughably pointless to him. _

"_That's putting it mildly. . . I thought you were an arrogant, self-absorbed pig."_

So much for pointless_, he thinks ruefully. And by reflex, covers his hurt with a quip. _

"_Flattery won't get you more oxygen," he taunts darkly, but after the ensuing pause stretches, finds the courage to ask, "do you think I've changed?"_

"_A lot," she sighs, her voice much weaker than his. "Now you're a stubborn, domineering pig." He grimaces, the sound of her thready breath filling his ears as he looks away, into the last starscape he thinks he'll see. "I'm just kidding," she says miserably. "There I go again; just pushed you away. . . You were right about me. . . It's what I do. Push people away."_

"_Well it's a sure fire way of not getting hurt," he confirms. He should know. It's a fine art he's been practicing most of his adult life, and with not much to show for it until _Voyager_. _

"_What a _coward _I am."_

_He doesn't know what to say to her whispered confession, her throbbing regret. Not when it's one, he knows, can only be assuaged with time. An irony he now contemplates as he curses himself for starting this conversation in the first place. _

_Pulling her into the tightest contact they can manage given their situation, barely an embrace, he closes his eyes and listens to the sound of B'Elanna's ragged breaths. Every few now punctuated with a long inhalation that sounds remarkably like a sob. _

* * *

><p>As they crawl through the darkened tube, Janeway tries to not focus on the sound of Tom's labored breaths; the haggard, uneven rhythm the only noise to fill the small space, aside from the low thuds of cautious limbs.<p>

Twice she's slowed when she heard him stop, no comment made by either, even on the second occasion, when she heard the telltale hiss of the hypospray before Tom continued forward.

_Two doses in less than an hour. _

She knows that this can't be normal, likely isn't even safe. And in the back of her mind, she's grateful that her medical knowledge is as limited as it is. It's easier not to focus on the meds her officer is pumping into his body when she honestly doesn't know the harm it could be causing, the exact nature of the obvious danger he is courting.

It's a dark consolation. But so far it's one of few, another being that they've made good progress in the Jeffries tubes, until they hit deck thirteen, a few minutes earlier.

Being within two decks of Engineering means an increased presence of repair personnel, and from the number of conduits they have to avoid, Janeway guesses out loud that Torres is taking the chance of using some of the Starfleet crew for labor.

"Let's hope no one tries anything heroic," Paris whispers, as Janeway taps into a control panel in one of the section breaks.

It's one of only three they've passed that's linked to emergency power, and the light of it, however small in radius, allows the Captain to see her helmsman face. She's deep in her work, trying to find a way to mask their lifesigns before the ship's internal sensors come back up. But still, she spares him a subtle inspection, silently noting his pale pallor and sweaty brow.

When she returns to her calculations, she arches an eyebrow as she belatedly latches onto the dark humor of Tom's last comment. It isn't as if his own efforts with Mister Kim have set the bar high for 'prudent cooperation'- however much his Captain appreciates her officers' tenacity.

"Some of the Maquis are probably agitating for a less _friendly_ stance towards us," the pilot continues, his hushed voice now dipping solidly toward bitter. "The next person on our side who steps out of line will be made into an example. Chakotay won't think he has a choice."

Outwardly, the Captain fails to acknowledge her officer's dark prophecy, her face remaining set even as she tightens her grip on all the worries that Tom's words, uttered with such confidence, now send spinning.

"That should buy us more time," she says, nodding to the panel as she steps away from it.

"What did you do?" he asks, his inhalation catching as he bends down to resume their trek.

"A little of this," she responds, her tone casual even as her eyes catch his pained movements, "a little of that."

Her glib dodge earns a smirk from him, just as she'd hoped it would.

"I didn't realize they taught sneakiness in command school."

"Sure they do. It's what they teach you after the importance of coffee, but before they coach you on how to glare properly."

"I'm sure it helps if you have some natural talent to begin with."

"Are you commenting on my personal level of sneakiness, Lieutenant?"

"Actually, that remark was directed toward your ability to glare impressively. But I can't deny claim to certain theses regarding your innate craftiness."

"Fair enough. Just promise me you'll keep the truth about my seedy side a secret."

Tom doesn't quip about his current inability to gossip, what with three-quarters of the crew being held captive, and the remaining fourth being out of their gourds. But in the ensuing pause, all the possible rejoinders about the bleakness of their current situation echo loudly in the newly darkened shaft, the duo's fragile banter quickly caving in on them.

. . . . .

It's twenty minutes into the silence that they stand in another section break and panels flicker. Paris glances at Janeway to see slight purse of her lips, before the small sign of worry disappears into the darkness.

More flickering, this time rhythmic; when all goes dark again, Tom tries to focus on following the noise of Janeway's movements down a new tube, closes his eyes and tries to shake the lightheaded sensation that's crowding his thoughts, the tide of nausea that finds him with every turn of his head.

"B'Elanna's attempting to reroute internal power," Janeway murmurs eventually, "finding a shortcut around whatever roadblocks Harry's put up."

Tom doesn't trust himself to speak at the moment, at least not while they're moving. But Janeway's statement hasn't told him anything he didn't already surmise, so he settles for a grunt of agreement, the noise sounding distant inside his head.

"Tom?"

It isn't until she says his name that it occurs to him how far behind her he's fallen. He does his best to catch up, but it's already there, in Janeway's voice, however faint its trace: the worry and the fear.

"Sorry, Capt'n. Too much pizza, not enough exercise. Guess. . . . married life has already made me soft."

He tries to infuse as much lightness into his voice as he can. It would be more convincing if each breath wasn't torn from his chest, the meager cheer he succeeds at projecting quickly fading at the mention of his spouse.

"When this is over, you're going to start joining me in Tuvok's martial arts program," Janeway remarks, managing to sound stern.

"Training with the Captain. . . Harry will be. . . so jealous." And as he says it, he forcibly swallows the bile that's filling his mouth, then reaches into the band of his pants, fumbling for the nearly empty hypospray.

"At the next break we'll stop and stand up," Janeway begins neutrally. "I don't know about you, but my knees are killing me."

"Standing up would be good," he allows, no longer able to keep the pain from bleeding through to his voice.

"It's alright," she says, looking back at the man she can't see through the darkness. "We're almost there."

"Almost," he repeats. And for a second, it nearly feels like he believes her.

. . . . .

"I don't know, Captain," Tom shakes his head.

"It's our best option, Lieutenant. As you yourself noted, the bridge is more than ten decks from here. Sickbay and the transporters half that, but if we get to a planet before then- "

"What about after the core is shut down?" he cuts her off, his voice now becoming animated, rushed. "What if he can't retake the ship after that? Being dead in space doesn't help anything then. If anything, it makes the Starfleet crew's prospects . . . more dire."

As they stand in a main juncture, Janeway crosses her arms defiantly. Paris isn't voicing anything she hasn't considered, but still she harbors the conviction that their worst case scenario is being marooned on a planet, with no hopes of making it back to _Voyager _and recovering the former Maquis' memories.

"We can't allow any members of the crew to be transported off the ship," she argues, feeling an old ire begin to peak at the thought she's having to defend her decisions to Tom Paris.

"You mean onto a planet," he says, running a clammy hand through his sweat-drenched hair. "Chakotay will be perfectly capable of beaming us all into space even with core down."

He knows before she opens her mouth that she's going to say it won't come to that. That Chakotay, even under the control of a fanatical Bajoran, won't be responsible for the deaths of over one hundred people, let alone one hundred people he used to call friends and colleagues.

"Do you really think it's wise to bank on Chakotay's principles?" he asks haggardly, his arm reaching for the shaft wall when his head once more begins to spin.

When Janeway's silence lingers, he looks over to search her face. It's then, in the faint light, that he sees the shadow of something just before it lifts. Doubt? Fear?

"Tom, I have to believe that we can reach them. That somewhere, even if deep beneath the surface, the people we trust are there."

It's an unfair plea, both given fact she hasn't told him about Tuvok passing Chakotay's little test of loyalty, and the pilot's obvious personal turmoil, in light of his recent marriage to a woman who, no doubt, is somewhere, frantically working to rid her Maquis comrades of Tom and the people he considers family.

Even then, Janeway's words aren't just manipulation either. Rational or not, she genuinely believes there's only so far Chakotay will betray her- a limit to the commitments he and the other Maquis will break, the harm they will inflict, in the pursuit of their new, radicalized objectives.

"You don't know him like this," Tom warns again, though his voice is now as forlorn as it is weak. "You don't know any of them. . . They aren't the people they were yesterday."

"I have to believe there's some trace of them," she says again, her voice now shaking despite her efforts. "If not. . . I don't know that there's hope for any of us."

As main power kicks back on, the break they're standing in floods with new illumination. Tom reflexively closes his eyes against the light, his memories momentarily hovering around another woman. Another confession in the dark, before a rush of energy and an encapsulating light.

. . . . .

From Tom's vantage point in an auxiliary duct on the second tier of Main Engineering, he spots three armed Maquis. Even if there are two more outside of his limited field of vision, this is half of what he would have guessed. But then, when he thinks about the number of Maquis guarding the Starfleet crew, manning the bridge, and likely searching for himself and the Captain, the math of this, in fact, checks out.

Janeway is in another conduit, one that lets out just behind a column on the side of room below. The position should give her about a second's advantage on one of the guards. A slim margin given that she's unarmed, but enough time (if she's lucky) to get to a position where she can draw fire from the others.

She's banking on them having their phasers set to stun, something Tom still thinks unwise. But really, they didn't have many options; two people without weapons, any efforts to tap into the main systems alerting the Maquis to their position within the ship.

With this, Tom wills his body and mind to focus. A challenge in itself, given the only thing he's running on is his own adrenaline, the effect of the artificial stimulants having worn off completely a few minutes earlier.

The pain is now debilitating, as is the nausea. And in the brief moments when he's focused on either, he feels the lightheadedness overtaking him, his body threatening to give way to unconsciousness.

_Focus_, he chides desperately. Then reach across his own wrist and pinches it savagely; forces his thoughts to concentrate on the sensation of the sharp, but by all means tolerable pain, as he waits for the sound of Janeway's move.

It comes ninety seconds later. The soft thud of a panel hitting the carpet, and not long after, the sound of phaser fire.

He manages to make it out of the duct quickly, but as soon as he's on his feet, he feels his legs begin to sway. Barreling onward anyway, he makes it three meters and around the corner, where he's surprised to see Janeway standing below him, on the main floor, with two phasers in her hand.

There's no time to contemplate how in the hell she's taken down two Maquis by herself, because as soon as sees him, she's tossing a phaser up to him and then exchanging fire with a third and fourth Maquis- evidently angled on the opposite side of engine room.

On legs that are quickly losing sensation, Paris makes it to a panel and begins keying in commands. He's almost done when he hears heavy footsteps coming up the platform behind him, feels his thoughts rush with the realization that Janeway herself is likely laying on the floor of Engineering, her prone form not far from the stunned Maquis.

When Tom exchanges fire with the first one to make it to platform, he's relieved to see it's Ken Dalby, an officer who Paris vaguely recalls as having trouble hitting a target with the broad-side of a starship. Dalby goes down quickly, and it couldn't be better timing. He'd been providing cover fire for the second person coming up the platform's ladder, leaving Tom at an unquestionable tactical advantage.

Paris attempts to still his fingers' shaky grip on his weapon as he positions himself behind a nearby panel._ One shot good shot, then go back to the main interface. After that, get to Janeway. _

But for all his mental preparation, he isn't ready for the familiar head that emerges from the ladder. Doesn't exhale when he sees B'Elanna's dark eyes scan the platform, locating Ken on the floor.

The window is only a second, but it's there. A clear opening when she's spotted him, but isn't yet able to lift her own phaser.

_B'Elanna's phaser. _

_B'Elanna. His wife._

The thought consumes him as he tells himself to fire, but doesn't let out the oxygen frozen in his chest; doesn't put an ounce of pressure on the button that will send a stream of energy into the body of the woman across from him.

The last thing Tom sees, as his body finally passes out from the internal hemorrhage that began hours earlier, is B'Elanna lifting her phaser, the bright line of energy it emits connecting with his chest.


End file.
